


Tango Just For Two

by queer_cheer



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Anthony Higgins, Kinda PWP, Kitchen Sex, Lots of Sex, M/M, Modern AU, Oral Sex, Sean Conlon - Freeform, basically JUST sex with a side serving of fluff, blowjob, davey and katherine are getting married and race wants to dance with spot at the wedding, don't let his tough-guy disposition fool you spot is a softie, especially when it comes to his boyfriend, handjob, race is trans and you can pry that headcanon from my cold unmoving hands, what are real names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 21:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11906865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queer_cheer/pseuds/queer_cheer
Summary: Spot might not have been the type to fall in love with flower petals and mushy loads of bullshit, but there was something about Race and the silly things he did that all but left him speechless. Like dancing in the kitchen at five in the morning to the sound of rain, for instance. Or running his fingers down his sides and squeezing his hips, pulling him closer until their chests were touching and Spot could smell the spice of coffee in his breath.The only thing Race asked for was a dance.





	Tango Just For Two

**Author's Note:**

> In which Ollie writes 2 a.m. smut instead of doing his math homework...
> 
> If you're Laura: enjoy! thanks for the title, mate.
> 
> If you're anyone else: I'm very, very sorry.

“I don’t get it,” Spot griped. “Remind me again why we gotta learn how to dance? I ain’t no dancer, Racetrack Higgins.” 

Race laughed into his coffee as sipped it, knowing damn well that no matter how many times he told Spot some half-assed reason why they had to dance at Davey and Katherine’s wedding, he’d come up with some half-assed excuse why they ought to just get drunk instead. 

“They only get married once, Spotty,” Race tutted, crossing the kitchen floor to drape his arm around his lover’s shoulders. He gestured out the window before them to the morning sunrise. Though the sky was grey with the promise of rain, Race’s eyes glinting with wonder. “It’s called romance, ya nit.” 

“It ain’t _my_ fault they had to go and get all lovey-dovey with it, though,” Spot tried his best to pout, but admittedly, it was hard to be in any sort of mood when Race stood so close to him, all starry-eyed and whatnot. “They could’a just did what Jack and Crutchie did and went right up to that Peace Justice guy.”

“Justice of the Peace,” Race smiled fondly. “And yeah, I mean, they could’a, but they didn’t. So now we gotta do what any real couple does and share a dance at the damn wedding. I betcha Jack and Crutchie’ll be up their dancing till they drop!” 

“I betcha they’ll be drunk, too.”

With a mischievous grin, Race took either of Spot’s hands in his and swayed gently from side to side. Before Spot could protest—and Race _knew_ he would—he giggled and said, “Look, Spotty, You’s dancin’.” 

Spot grumbled, but Race didn’t miss the twitch that curved his lips into a reluctant smile.

“It ain’t that tough, sweetheart. All you gotta do is move a little.” 

Grudgingly, Spot tightened his fingers around Race’s hands and swayed with him. He’d go and say he was just humoring him, making him smile because hey, who could resist that stupid smile? He sure couldn’t. But maybe—just _maybe_ —he wouldn’t mind dancing all that much. That is, as long as he got to do it with Race.

“How is we dancing when there ain’t no music?”

“We don’t need no music,” Race pulled Spot an inch closer, one hand scaling down to rest against his hip. “We’s got the rain.” 

Spot hadn’t ever really thought he’d go and fall in love with some starry-eyed dancer, but Race, with his tousled hair and oversized flannels, had proved him wrong. Race had the habit of making him fall in love over and over again, and damn, he was sure he fell harder every time. Spot might not have been the type to fall in love with flower petals and mushy loads of bullshit, but there was something about Race and the silly things he did that all but left him speechless. Like dancing in the kitchen at five in the morning to the sound of rain, for instance. Or running his fingers down his sides and squeezing his hips, pulling him closer until their chests were touching and Spot could smell the spice of coffee in his breath.

Spot kissed his neck first, with one hand settling into the small of Race’s back and the other brushing lightly against his cheek.

“You tricked me, Higgins,” He giggled, glancing up to meet Race’s grin with one of his own. “This wasn’t really about dancin’, now was it?” 

“Hey, sure it was,” Race pulled away for a moment, feigning innocence. “You think I’d use our dear friends’ wedding as an excuse to be kissin’ on ya?” He tangled his fingers in Spot’s hair and gave a light tug, pulling his head back just enough to expose the soft spot just beneath his ear. He kissed him there, biting just hard enough to send a chill down Spot’s spine. When he spoke, he breath felt hot against his skin. “Sweetheart, I don’t need no excuse for that.” 

Spot shoved him up against the wall and kissed him once, twice, harder, faster. His fingers fiddled scrappily with the buttons of his shirt, and Race’s hands had made their way down to undo Spot’s belt. His fly came next, and he couldn’t help but gasp at the sudden pressure that came when Race’s hand tightened around him. 

Race smirked proudly, as if he’d somehow won a game Spot didn’t even know they were playing.

“C’mon, sit down,” Race gave his arm a push, gesturing broadly to the chairs at the heart of the room. When Spot looked up at him (his attention had been drawn rather low, he’d admit), Race’s freckled cheeks were rosy-red and his eyes, typically wide with wonder, were lidded and dark. An electric current ran through Spot, settling beneath the band of his boxers. He let Race guide him to the chair with practiced ease, and when Race dropped to his knees before him, Spot bit back an anticipative groan.

“In the kitchen chair?” He gasped, incredulous but far from unwilling.

“Unless you’d rather sit on the floor,” Race giggled as he yanked Spot’s pants down to his knees, taking his boxers down with them. “It don’t matter much to me.” 

Spot nodded—it was just about the only thing he could do, really, and Race, satisfied with his seating, tightened his fingers around’s Spot’s length and squeezed.

“Fuck, Race!” 

“Patience,” he giggled in response. “Ain’t nobody ever told you that’s a virtue?” 

Race stroked him, slowly at first, but as he fell into an experienced rhythm, Spot stopped giving a damn about virtues or vices or anything in between that wasn’t Race. His Race. His Race, jerking him off and looking rather proud about it, too.

Race stilled, and teasingly, he peppered slow kisses along his thighs. Too slow. Excruciatingly slow. Spot let out a low groan as his fingers dug into the seat of his chair, his head thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut.

And then Race’s wise-crack mouth was around his dick and Spot moaned his name, breathless and staggered. His fingers laced through Race’s chestnut curls, and he was careful not to hold him down, careful not to push too hard or rock his hips too far. He just tugged gently, sensually, fondly, intimately; knowing just how little touch it took to drive Race mad.

Race made a sound caught someplace between pleasure and pride as he resumed his stroking, taking Race deeper in his mouth and doing something with his tongue that made him see stars.

“ _Merda, tesoro,_ ” He grit, his brain cast in a haze through which he couldn’t seem to find his English. “ _Sì_ , Anthony, _cazzo_.” 

Race jolted at the sound his name surrounded by Italian, a language he’d always found beautiful when it tumbled accidentally from Spot’s lips. But as beautiful as it was, it seemed suddenly debauched and depraved in the best possible way. Heat pooled in his belly and he pulled away, but before Spot could ask if something was wrong, he was kissing him again, harder and with more vigor than before. 

Neither noticed as the chair began to tip until it was falling backwards, dumping them out onto the floor. There was a pause, a breath suspended in confusion, and then both burst into laughter.

“Looks like we ended up on the floor anyways,” Spot grinned at Race’s hearty, snorty, from-the-gut laugh, realizing then that he was sure, beyond a shadow of doubt, that it was even more musical a sound than the rain. 

Race reached for his hand and pulled him over on top of him. 

“You gonna fuck me here on the floor or are ya just gonna sit there and make me do all the work?” He teased, fondling the hem of Spot’s shirt. 

The mood came back as quickly as it had gone, and there on the kitchen floor, caught between a tilted chair and a spilt cup of coffee, Spot nipped at Race’s collarbone until he had his shirt properly undone. Spot tugged off his own shirt and tossed it to the side, biting down against Race’s skin to stifle a groan as his lover ran a hand across his chest. 

Spot’s kisses sank lower, dotting along Race’s neck, and then his chest, and then his ribs. He unfastened his trousers and tugged them off, tossing them to the side with his discarded shirt. 

He slid Race’s boxers down past his knees and pushed his legs apart, brushing his thumb across the nub of flesh that now sat exposed. 

Race whimpered, his hips jerking towards Spot. With his free hand, Spot pressed against Race’s stomach to still him.

“Ain’t you the one that said patience is a virtue?” He teased with a smug little smirk, keeping his hand in place as his other moved once again to settle between Race’s legs.

“Fuck you,” Race grated in a tone that bordered on desperate. The sound of his want went straight to Spot’s cock. “Fuck me.” 

Spot was never one for taking orders, but for Race, he figured he could make the exception. He moved down to tease him gently with his tongue, lapping at that sensitive bit and groaning at the sounds it drew from Race’s lips. He ached with want, and every nerve south of his naval seared with each noise he made. 

Spot slipped one finger inside, arching it until he hit the place that made Race cry out with every prod. He slid a second finger in with it, slow and gentle. In. Out. In. Out. He counted his breaths to keep from losing it then and there at the simple sight alone.

God, he was so in love it hurt.

“I want you,” Race whined, pulling hard at Spot’s hair. “Fuck, Sean, I want you bad.” 

Spot moved up to kiss him, and for a moment, the kiss was tender. For a moment, the kiss was enough. He tucked a stray strand of hair gently behind Race’s ear and pulled away, giving him that unabridged smile he reserved for his eyes only.

“I love you,” He said, and he meant it more than he’d ever meant anything in his entire life. 

“We’ve gotten this far; I hope ya love me!” Race giggled, the tips of his ears flushing light pink. “But you know I love you too, ya nit.” 

Smiling, Race stood up and crossed the kitchen, rummaging around in the cabinet until he found a condom.

“I love ya,” He grinned. “But we ain’t gonna have a kid yet, no sir!” 

Race laughed. “No arguments there!” 

Pulling the condom on over his length, Spot paused to look up at Race once again.

“You sure you’re ready?” 

Race reached down and gave his dick a firm squeeze, earning a rather vulgar moan. Beaming, he nodded. 

“I think you are, too, lover boy.” 

Spot pushed into him, and together, they gasped at the new tightness, the sudden fullness. The intimacy went beyond the physical connection; Race cupped Spot’s cheek as his eyes fluttered shut. His thumb brushed across his parted lower lip, and when he kissed him, he kissed him like the clouds kissed the sky. Together, they were one of Jack’s paintings or one of Katherine’s poems—vivid, art-like, passionate. 

Spot settled into a steady rhythm, and with each thrust, Race spat loud swears intermingled with Spot’s name. Spot had lost himself in the pleasure swallowing him, and for all he knew, there was nothing left in the world but Race, himself, and the kitchen floor.

“God,” Race cried, his fingers digging into Spot’s shoulder. “Fuck me.” 

The pain and pleasure mixed like vodka and orange juice, and Spot was drunk on love.

Spot quickened his pace, and their moans joined together in a chorus of bliss. Spot felt his climax building, and with each thrust he pushed himself closer to edge. He counted his breaths again because if he didn’t, he was sure he’d forget to breath altogether. 

“Anthony,” He gasped. “Tony, I’m gonna--”

Race howled as his own rapture washed over him, taking Spot with him not long after. He shouted Race’s name over and over, loud enough that he found himself hoping the neighbors weren’t home, until he pulled out and slumped down with his head against Race’s sweat-soaked chest.

“Jeez,” He looked up at Race and smiled in the contentedness of their afterglow, feeling like he really was floating above the world and all its innumerable faults. Race laughed, his fingers toying lightly with Spot’s damp hair.

“Eloquently put, sweetheart,” Race joked, his smile soft and warm. There was a dulled happiness between them, a sense of mutual ease. If anyone were to ask what the best part about sex was, Race was sure he’d have to say it was just that; the closeness after the fact, the moments during which the red-hot heat of lust slowly wanes to a comfortable, well-acquainted closeness.

He looked around the kitchen and laughed.

“Gosh, Spot, look at the place!”

Spot looked around at the fallen chair, the spilt coffee, the table pushed off-center. He couldn’t help but grin. 

“Looks like we had a busy mornin’,” He joked, leaning over and pressing a kiss to Race’s forehead. “I really do love you, y’know. I ain’t good with words, but if I was, I’d write you somethin’ real nice about it, too.” 

Race wrapped his arms around him and nuzzled into his shoulder.

“Spotty?” 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” Spot turned to him, a gentle smile against his lips.

Race beamed. “You’s still gonna dance with me at the wedding.”


End file.
